


The Ruatha River Tales

by astrokath



Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey
Genre: Crack, Gen, Not to be taken seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 06:36:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrokath/pseuds/astrokath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Canterbury Tales meets Pern! With apologies to Chaucer and every English teacher I've ever had...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Thread-shelter is a miserable, egalitarian place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mantlady](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Mantlady).



> These first two chapters were written over the course of a crazy two-hour period for Mantlady on FF.net. Blame her for the idea; blame me for the rest. It was actually pretty fun to write, and I have background ideas for the other characters present (The boatmen are smugglers! The guy with the odd accent is Mardra's brother and wants to oust baby Jaxom!) so I think I may well add to it, if there's an audience.

Ruatha is not what it was...and Ruatha is not yet what it _was_. None would deny that the Hold's fortunes are better now than they once were, when Fax ruled the north and Harper Blue was only ever openly worn by the untroubled skies, but decades of rot cannot be quickly undone, even in a Hold that bears the favour of two Weyrs. Even so, the signs are there for all to see: that, in time, Ruatha will thrive again. Its men no longer fear to walk tall, its women no longer fear to walk abroad at all, the fields and pastures have been blessed by good weather and few burrowing threads, and the Ruatha River flows as fierce and fast as ever. And, along its banks, the ancient, derelict Thread-shelters have all been repaired or built anew.

There are rules for such places. There are rules everywhere, but on Thread-shelters, the Charter is especially clear, and the punishment meted out particularly apt: deny entry to one in need of shelter, and the callous culprit will find themselves made Holdless, with _all_ doors barred to them forevermore. And so, a Thread-shelter is a miserable, egalitarian place, where the sons of Holders and lesser Lords mingle with journeying Crafters, tithe-drovers, drudges, runners and those who do not care to openly name what they are.

I believe I met some of every kind, that Turn. A beastcrafter and his family, returning to the Hold they'd fled a decade earlier. A son of Lord Groghe's, who'd accompanied me throughout my journey from the Hall. A young man with an unusually accented voice, whose robust height and health spoke of obviously good breeding, who was reluctant to speak of his purposes in the region. Two boatmen, in charge of a raft so laden by woven goods that it rode dangerously low in the water, and the mute drudge who was with them. A blooded daughter of Nabol, a guardsman, and the spry old auntie acting as the maid's chaperone. A runner, red-faced and cheery, flush with pride at her first solo crossing of the Western Mountains. We all of us arrived at the same shelter that day – it was one of the closest to the river, and the only one for many hours' walk – and resigned ourselves to the joy of each others' presence for the remainder of the day and throughout the night that would, inevitably, follow. Of course, I cannot say I _know_ how anyone thought or acted before my own arrival, but I do not think it stretches the bounds of credibility to say that the arrival of a Harper brightened – nay, broke! – the interminable boredom of a disparate company forced to remain in such dreary and straitened conditions. It was my pleasure and my privilege to play and sing for them until I was quite hoarse, and then, later, to draw out the truths of their own lives. Not through anything as crass as asking questions direct – supping from a common pot does not necessitate that _all_ mannerly conduct be abandoned – but I learned much that night, as well as in the days that followed, while we waited out the storm, the flood, and the rescue that never came.

Not everyone likes songs, but everyone has a favourite story. Drudge or Dragonrider, Harper or Holder, there's always some tale that sings inside the heart

You can learn a lot about someone from the stories they tell.


	2. The Nabol Auntie's Tale

Once, there was proud Lord Holder who was blessed with two strong sons. The oldest son was Searched by the Weyr, and as it was an Interval he and the brown dragon he Impressed lived long and happy lives together. The younger son was of reasonable character, dutiful and dull, but he was also pleasant enough of face and known to be moderate enough in his lusts that the unwed daughters of all the major Holds of Pern – and one or two widowed matrons besides – all vied to make his match.

But there was one girl who was more determined to win him for herself than all of the others combined. She was not the smartest, nor the most beautiful, but she'd long admired the Lord's younger son – for she'd grown up in a cothold that looked to the very same Lord – and thought herself quite in love, and believed him to be in love with her. And perhaps he did love her, well enough that all of the favourable rumours of his character didn't come at the expense of hers. But, as I said, he was also dutiful and dull – too dutiful to cross his father's wishes that he find a wealthy bride, and too dull to think up a suitable scheme of getting around them in any case.

And so, as she was too prideful for any bed less than that of an acknowledged Hold Lady, all the scheming was left to her. She inveigled her way into the Steward's favour, and attended on each and every potential bride that visited the Hold. In such intimate company, faults and complaints were easy to find – real, imagined, or spun from whole cloth – and with her help and encouragement the younger son rejected each and every one of his suitors in turn.

Later that same summer, the Lord announced that his Hold would be hosting a Gather. There was little said beyond that, but the sheer scale of the event meant that one thing was certain: all the worthies of Pern would attend, and from amongst their number a bride _would_ be found. What could the girl do now? She hadn't the exquisite beauty of the young ladies of Igen and Keroon, the wit of the widowed sister of Benden's Lord, nor the wealth of the heiress of Boll.

So she decided to claim a gift that they all lacked: an affinity with _dragonkind_. To say that the dragons spoke to her would be a lie too far, even she knew that – for surely the Lord's older son would be present, with his brown, along with many other riders of the Weyr – but legend says that dragons are not the only creatures to bring grace to Pern's skies. Firelizards, that was where the wealth of her own dowry would be claimed, and at the height of the Gather she announced that she had seen firelizards flying in the hills, that she knew where they were weyred, and that she, unlike any other, could walk amongst them and call them to roost upon her head and hands. They would be tame soon, surely, tame enough that they would look to her as well as any wher looks to its keeper, dragons in miniature that would bring luck and fortune to any Hold she chose to claim as her home. But they were prideful creatures, firelizards, she told the assembled crowds, and though the skittish greens and blues would flock to her call, they would not stay by her side. For there was a queen lizard as well, a gold who ruled their wills and would do so forever unless the girl could convince her that she was her equal. The little queen might defer to a Lady with her gift, but not to a common girl.

Now, in any other Hold she would probably have been laughed back into obscurity, but although she couldn't match the lady of Benden's mind, she was cunning and more than motivated enough to appeal to her own Lord's desires. The dragon his older son had Impressed had left the Lord's heart conflicted: the slow ache of separation from the bright boy he'd first called son warred with a deep and unmet yearning for the dragon that neither he nor his younger son would ever know. A firelizard friend for his younger son – and perhaps also for himself – would be the gift he could most rejoice in, one that would herald his bloodline's worth without tearing his beloved family asunder.

So he made the girl a promise, proclaiming it out loud to all. She would wed his son, at the Gather's end, but only if she could first prove the truth of her words. A Lady-to-be, holding the token of the Lord's heir's favour, should have it in her to sway a lizard queen just as easily as a Lady of the Hold in truth.

Now, that might perhaps have been true, but if so it was the only part of the girl's story that was. For she could not call lizards of any colour to her side, did not know where in the hills of the Hold they were weyred, and had not, in fact, ever set eyes on one at all.

So while the other ladies danced, and feasted, and drank, she walked into the hills behind her family's cot to weep over her mistakes. For she knew that while many of the ladies of Pern would have scorned her, some others would have welcomed her as their husband's mistress, and that she might have had a comfortable life of ease if she'd only been willing to share the younger son's attentions. It was too late for that now, for the Lord had had another promise, spoken for her ears alone: that a liar who falsely claimed affinity with dragonkind would be made to live the truth of it regardless. And she had no desire to be exiled to the Weyr, for her character was not so low as that.

Late that night, under Belior's light, inspiration found her at last. And when the sun rose again in the morning, she presented herself to the Lord of the Hold bearing a basket full of eggs, stolen from the firelizard queen's nesting grounds. Warm, they needed to be kept, the Lord's older son declared, and they were set beside the hearth while the busy fingers of the Hold's seamstresses cut and sewed the girl a fine dress of deepest red. The following day, the Hold's Harper joined her hand to that of the Lord's younger son, and still the eggs sat in their pot beside the hearth. And the married couple did what all married couples do on their wedding night, and still the eggs sat by the fire, as warm and content as every last one of the girl's perfectly fulfilled dreams.

And then they hatched.

The eggs hatched, and they hatched into snakes, snakes that were far deadlier than the ones the girl had thought lurked within, snakes that hungered and slithered and scaled the walls of the Hold, that set their fangs into the flesh of Holdfolk and Gatherers alike. Oh, how loud were the screams of terror that night! ...but none so loud as those of the bride, when she was hauled, a newly weeping widow, before her poor, unfortunate husband's father.

She begged the Lord to show mercy, to let her stay in the Hold, to not be sent to live amongst the licentious, unprincipled Weyrfolk. "Aye!" he said, "if that is what you desire, then I vow that the Weyr will never have you. It is with dragonkind that your days will end... but not with dragons."

And with that, he summoned his guards, and they threw her into the bowels of the Hold wher's den. Whether the wher was crazed by the intrusion, or by the bright lights of the guardsmen's torches, is not a part of the story I was told...but either way, the Lord's promise was kept that very night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I am open to requests for what to post next. More of the framing story? A character epilogue, from when our Harper reports back to Robinton? A tale from a particular character, or with a particular moral in mind?


End file.
